


Ask Not for Whom the Bell Tolls, or Hudson's Square

by fresne



Series: Voyages of the Bakerstreet [20]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Star Trek, Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Minor Character Death, Misunderstandings, Other, SCIENCE!, Shmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-01
Updated: 2018-09-04
Packaged: 2019-07-05 14:14:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 9,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15865254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fresne/pseuds/fresne
Summary: As their first five year mission comes to an end, John must deal with the consequences of an injury. How can he continue a relationship with Sherlock and not reveal Sherlock's healing abilities? How can he continue with his career if he does nothing?Meanwhile, Hudson has picked the same the square in the betting pool for when John and Sherlock would finally admit they were a couple since she arrived on the Bakerstreet.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> BTW: This will be the end of the first five year mission. There's still a lot more stories to go after this one.

The start of another mission.

The start of another pool for when the Commander and John would admit they were a couple, or at least stop protesting that they weren't.

As always, Killian McCarthy setup the new pool.

Hudson as always said, "You know my standard pick, dear. Please add it."

Killian sighed and extended the date range. Hudson had been picking the same spot every time for the last four and a half years. Although, he reflected, eventually they'd get to the end of the five year mission, and put an end to that one way or another.

"Okay, as the sacred keeper of the pool," said Killian, "I'll pick next. I have a good feeling about the next mission. Maiwand. Sounds like a winner." He looked at Hunter and Julian who picked as a couple, "Next."


	2. Sherlock POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smoopy angst to set the mood.

It was grit in his machine.

A crack in his foundation.

Sherlock could not forget the sensation of thinking that he was owned by John. Then hope at the idea of being married to John.

The sense of completion.

Not casually fornicating in the holodeck.

Not stealing hours when John fell asleep after intercourse.

His emotions openly acknowledged and accepted.

Bound.

Before the Federation and even his parents.

John was not similarly focused on those events. He never mentioned it. He joined a band with Sh'Alaack, Bailey, and Smith. They were terrible, but they would not allow Sherlock to help. They did allow Sherlock to play compositions after they held terrible concerts in the cargo bay.

Sherlock did not compose a sonata about the joy it would be to be married to John that caused the attending crew not deaf from listening to the Bad Band to weep. Fine, he did.

He did not include it in their rotation in the holodeck. Fine, he did.

He did not fit John's finger for a ring by sucking on it. He did that too.

He did not fantasize in any way having a long term role in John's life. At all. Ever. Not even staring at the wide open sea that was all that was left of his early childhood. John's gift.

He also understood that time was finite. Especially in a military organization where transfers after two years were common. After a five year mission, they were inevitable.

He counted down the days for what he could have.


	3. John POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The classic definition of a comedy is a story that begins in sorrow and ends in joy. This is a comedy in that sense.
> 
> Now, off to Maiwand.

When they'd been invited down to the planet Maiwand by the local government, there hadn't really been any mention of the isolationists who felt all aliens were a perversion on the sacred soil of their world.

John crouched behind a rock and did his best to stop the bleeding from the projectile wound on Chief McCarthy's chest. "Stay with me."

"You'd think," said McCarthy between tightly clenched teeth, "that if they think we're a perversion, they wouldn't want us bleeding on the dirt."

John laughed. He was still laughing when the metal projectile from an old fashioned weapon went through the back of his right shoulder, ricocheted, and made its way out the other side. John did his best to fall backwards. The entry wound was smaller. Less chance of bleeding out in that direction. He couldn't feel his right hand.

He lost consciousness. Swam into view to see Sh'Alaack repeating something. John blinked. "Doctor Watson, what do I do?"

John forced his lips to move. "Auto suture. Small silver stick, bottom right of the med kit. Setting nine. Blue button." There was a whir. John did his best to turn his head. Caught sight of McCarthy. He didn't appear to be breathing. John tried to move, but couldn't.

"Hold still, Doctor." There was a whir. He couldn't feel the wound closing, but he supposed he'd lost a lot of blood. The auto suture wouldn't do anything for nerve damage. Blood loss. It would just close the wounds.

A flash of white. John blinked awake. He was in Sickbay. His lips were dry when he tried to lick them. "McCarthy?"

Julian said, "Let's focus on your injuries first."

"He didn't make it," said Sherlock, who was sitting next to him. Looking at the coral reef wreck of him. Full fathoms five.

"I would have put it differently," said Julian.

"He wanted to know," said Sherlock, who moved closer. Took his hand. John could feel Sherlock's hand. That was something.


	4. Sherlock POV

"There's been extensive nerve damage to his right arm. While the nerve regenerator will be able to repair some of the damage, he'll never have the same level of dexterity."

Sherlock did not need a hologram to tell him the obvious. He'd been there through the surgery. He was also well aware of the required dexterity levels for Starfleet doctors.

John was left handed. He was a trained doctor. They simply would not tell Starfleet while they explored the limits of what cures coitus might bring.

"You need to know that… thirteen months ago, I started automatically backing up medical logs. Certain key data points to offsite storage." Sherlock looked up to meet the hologram's gaze. "People had been tampering with my data records." Julian's expression was grim. "All I am is my memories. My program."

Offsite meant Starfleet storage. It meant that the damage done to John's nerves was already busily speeding its way to Starfleet command.

Sherlock would find a way to fix this.


	5. John POV

Being on the other side of physical therapy was not good. In fact it was bad. John squeezed the ball. He did all the exercises. He spent his daily agony session in the nerve regenerator. Not agonizing because it hurt.

Pain would mean that his body was healing.

Agonizing because after the first few sessions, it didn't hurt.

He could feel with his fingertips. But almost as if there was a layer between him and what he was feeling.

Though it all, there was the drum beat thought that Sherlock had a magical healing cock.

He'd never felt less like having sex in his life.

He'd developed a fucking limp. A fucking limp. He hasn't been shot in the fucking leg. He'd been shot in the shoulder. Nowhere near his leg.

He replicated a cane and stomped around the ship. Stomped around and thought to himself, "If I have sex with Sherlock, I'd be fine."

Course, there was the whole problem of explaining just why he was suddenly fine. There was the whole problem of feeling like shite cooking in the hot sun of an alien world that considered him a perversion of sacred soil.

Owen replicated him a wizard's staff and presented it at the next Aug Soc. He said, "It's got a knob on the end and everything."

The next time he went through DS9, he stomped around with it. His leg ached while watching Benjamin cook. Although, Jake, who was growing like a weed, got the staff joke first. It seemed sometime in the last few months, someone had introduced Jake to Terry Prachett's Diskworld books.

Still, he thanked Benjamin for his advice about talking to Sherlock about his dad. Seemed a long time back. Worrying about the past when it was the future that was the problem.

He brainstormed a few treatments with Doctor Bashir and Dax. Met Dax's new flirtation, Lieutenant Worf, the only Klingon in Starfleet. Worf solemnly told him that he'd once been paralyzed, but he'd recovered. Which since John didn't have a backup nervous system, he wasn't sure how that helped.

On the other hand, Garak took one look at the staff, said, "What a wonderful cover," and insisted on examining John's nob. "The one on your staff." He smiled. "I have no need for Commander Holmes to push me out an airlock."

He did wonder if he got a desk job, if it would be anything like DS9. But probably not. More likely a larger base with a full complement of medical staff.

He redoubled his efforts.

His participation in the Bad Band was just another form of physical therapy. At least he'd never actually been good.

He lay in bed at night telling himself to be strong enough. Together enough. To decide what it was he should do. If he was healed, and it was still an if, because healed ovaries wasn't a shoulder, then how could he explain it?

Anything that wouldn't lead anyone back to Sherlock. He kept thinking about that story his father used to tell about the magic pig. Endlessly harvested for ribs and bacon. He kept thinking Sherlock hanging by his wrists in one of Colonel Green's cells.

Sex with Sherlock had gone from something that could get John cashiered out of Starfleet for breaking regulations to something that could turn Sherlock into something for experimentation. Endlessly harvested for what he could give. Because Section 31 was real. Because the Obsidian Order and the Tal Shiar and any number of other organizations were real.

He limped a lot.

Sometime in the middle of the night, he gave up. Pinged Sherlock to see if he was awake just to keep John company. Nothing more.

He was.

He was always awake.

He asked tentatively once if perhaps they shouldn't simply have sex. That Sherlock would do all the work.

John yelled, "I'm not turning you into a magic pig." And slammed his way into his bedroom.

About thirty minutes later, Sherlock tapped on the door. Didn't wait for an answer. "If I can cure you…"

"You're missing the part where I said I'm not turning you into a magic pig." Which then required a good bit of explanation. Finally John said, "Let's just keep trying other methods. Ones we can explain to Starfleet."

It was as he watched Sherlock go through option after option, and every third option was they could simply use the cure they knew, he thought, "I love him. I am in love with him."

It wasn't entirely a revelation.

He'd been willing to kill for Sherlock. They'd been exclusive for several years. Was willing to limp his way into a desk job. It was just the first time he'd put it into words in his own head.

It was utterly terrifying.

Best friends who fucked around was easy. It was something John could stop and start. Something he was in control of. But love was messy.

So, he locked that thought up in a little cage, because he wasn't dealing with this too.

He simply stopped dealing.

At least John stopped adding cubes to his box. At least there was that.


	6. Sherlock pov

They hadn't coupled in months, which was fine. John did not feeling amorous. Still, Sherlock missed his hand on his shoulder. The occasional good morning kiss.

He knew that at a certain point, John would no longer be regarded by Starfleet officials to be healing, but as healed as he was going to be. At that point, he'd be transferred. Most probably to a Starbase that required a general practitioner. John would treat colds and flues. The occasional venereal disease.

All while Sherlock had a method to cure him. Perhaps. Maybe.

Mummy's blood had healed Donovan. Sherlock had healed John of many minor injuries.

However, there was no way to force a cure.

Perhaps that's why he had John come down with him to Amerind to discover just why it was populated with Humans from various Native American tribes. With monoliths that were apparently used to ward off asteroids. Perhaps landing in what for all appearances was a recreated Cuzco of the Incan empire had been a poor choice.

John's ridiculous staff with the knob of wood at the end was quite useful for holding off natives trying to capture the invaders. It didn't break the Prime Directive, and John was magnificent swinging it. Sherlock paused in his own battle for their lives to contemplate the wonder that was an angry John.

Really, it wasn't Sherlock's fault after they escaped to the temple of the mummies, which the natives would not enter for reasons that Sherlock could not care about.

He was laughing at their narrow escape when John kissed him. John's tongue into his mouth. His own tongue exploring John. He didn't rip off John's clothes – fine he did, but with no other object than getting closer, always closer. He did ejaculate all over John, but for no other reason that John's hand, his nerve damaged hand was wrapped around his cock. John's lips were licking beads of cum off the head and if he came spectacularly, an eruption that a volcano would envy, it had been three months, nine days, and eleven hours since they had last been intimate.

Sherlock froze immediately after. Eyes carefully watching John, who sighed. "We are very bad at not having sex."

Still, seeing John touch his cum covered fingers. Smile. Laugh. Sigh again. It was good. John would be fine. His career would be fine.

John refused to have Julian test his dexterity. He rested his head on Sherlock's shoulder. His healed hand. "Fuck it. We'll see what Starfleet does and go from there."


	7. Sherlock POV

As their five year mission completed, they were recalled back to Sector One, Earth.

This was a little unusual, according to Hudson. "It says that the reasoning is that with so many personnel up for their five year re-enlistment, Command wanted personnel at headquarters to handle the assignment coordination. But I would encourage everyone to remember that for any organization with more than two people, politics are involved." She looked at John and Sherlock. "Under these circumstances, it might not be amiss to tidy up any mission reports with gaps or so there isn't a way to add any additional commendations for missions well done."

Sherlock nodded absently as Hudson read the news at the morning briefing. Any gaps in reports were there for a reason. Commendations would require fewer classified missions.

She told them that she was planning on having a little chat with all the personnel. Not that she was their mother, but they needed to be prepared that if there wasn't a promotion in the offing, Starfleet might choose to end their commission with Starfleet, or opt to change personnel to inactive status unless, "Sacred Chalice forbid, there's something like another Borg attack. Mind, you it's a mutual sort of affair with personnel being free to choose to do something else."

Hunter and Smith gave Hudson alarmed looks to which Hudson laughed. "Oh, I'm not retiring. I wouldn't know what to do with myself on Betazed. The main point is that anyone on inactive status would be available to be brought in as a specialist to fill needed roles without issues with chain of command. Ship captain have the discretion to fill needed roles." She repeated that, as if he needed, or cared for repetition.

Later, she brought Billy in to see him. "The dear is ever so worried about what will become of him and Connor."

She looked at him significantly. He looked at Billy, who was worrying his hands. Sherlock said, "Ah, you've heard that personnel are likely to be reassigned, and are concerned about your status, or non-status as a citizen of no planet."

Hudson said, "Sherlock, either one of us could manufacture an identity for the poor lamb. He wants to know what will happen to his family."

"Yeah," sighed Billy. "Connor is beside himself to think that he'll have to leave. The first time in his life he could just be a child has been here. I… I heard from… someone that Beta Aurigae has a large Augment population, but I don't know anyone there." Billy's heart rate was quick. His pheromones reeked of fear. A sharp tinge.

"Oh, there's plenty of Augments on Earth, dear," said Hudson.

Billy shook his head vehemently. His eyes narrowing. "I never want to go back to Earth. I don't even like going down to the planets we've visited just yet." He looked around the room. "Here or on a space station I know I'm in the future. I can hear it in the hum of the engines. The way the air feels. But, maybe, I can go somewhere else. My grandfather may have never made it to another world, but we can. We will had to."

"It's still possible I could be reassigned to the Bakerstreet," said Sherlock. Certainly given the trajectory of his career, if his commission was reupped, assignment to a ship with a ten year lifespan would make sense. However, other eventualities were also possible. "If I am transferred to a different command, I'll make a place for you onboard. As a ship or base commander, I'd have," he glanced at Hudson, "a certain level of discretion about bringing on personnel for needed roles."

"If you don't get a command? I… it's just, I want to know what I have to prepare for."

Sherlock hated to say what he said next. "I can contact my brother about your situation. There is… that is there may be… somewhere you can go."

Billy looked at him levelly. "The brother you tell to sod off whenever he crosses paths with the Bakerstreet."

Sherlock waved that off. "Mycroft is a massively over protective tit, but he is…" Sherlock rolled his eyes, "dependable. And he will be able to arrange for you and your child's safety," with quite frankly with a far closer relative to Billy than John, "Although," he grimaced, "it may come with strings." He glared at the ceiling. "There are always strings my family. You may wish to return to DS9 instead." He sighed. "Or Beta Aurigae may make more sense."

"It has lovely beaches," said Hudson. "I've been there several times. Other than being on the border with the Breen Confederation, and all the pirates who ship out of their space ports, it's a lovely planet."

"Uh…" said Billy, "Maybe I could talk to Commander Holmes' brother."

"Too right, dear," said Hudson and they left Sherlock to wander his mind palace in thought.

The day the Bakerstreet went into dry dock at the Lunar base, Hudson organized a celebration in the cargo bay.

Sherlock endured John's playing in the Bad Band.

Afterwards, Hudson got up on the small stage. She said, "Now ordinarily a ship's captain would give this speech, but I think we all know he's not the sort." His crew laughed, clustered together around small tables. She raised a glass. "These have been the voyages of the USS Bakerstreet."

Smith raised a glass. "Here, here."

Sherlock snorted.

"Together, many of us completed the Bakerstreet's original shakedown cruise. Many of you started your careers on the Bakerstreet, and now we're at the end of our original five year mission." She smiled and looked around the room. "That is a long time for anyone to get to serve together. Some of you, many of you, will be transferring on to new ships. To well-earned promotions. That is the way of a life in Starfleet. Some of us will serve together again. Some of us will not. But the friendships we've formed will continue on years after our ships pass in the long dark night. To all of you. To the Bakerstreet."

The crew raised their glasses. "To the Bakerstreet."

It was horrible. Maudlin.

Sherlock played his violin to avoid speaking to anyone. When he finished Mendelssohn’s Lieder, John said, "That's one of my favorites that you play."

"I know." Sherlock put his violin in its case. Sherlock did not say that he had wanted to finish with John's favorite. The room had thinned out as crew members left. Many of them heading out for their leave on Earth, before going into headquarters to be given their next assignment. He looked around the ship. His home.

John said, "So, I've been meaning to ask, what are you doing on your leave?"

His home was the people in the Bakerstreet. It was John.

Sherlock looked at him. He did not say that his intention was to brood for two weeks over the grit in his machine until he flew apart. Until he knew what his and John's next assignments might be.

"Well, if you don't have plans. You should spend it with me. I've arranged for a nice little place in Cornwall."

Greedy, he agreed. He'd take what he could.

Still there was a task to complete first.

An unpleasant task. He went to meet his brother in an observation lounge in the Armstrong dome of the Lunar colony.

Mycroft said, "I was wondering when you'd contact me about him."

Sherlock looked at him sharply. "Why? He's nothing to do with Mummy or my fathers."

"No, of course not." Mycroft smiled like Sherlock was a silly child. "Billy is merely a grandchild of an original Augment. You are fortunate, for the sake of your picayune arrangements on the Bakerstreet, that I didn't tell his grandfather about him after Billy approached me on DS9. Not that it wouldn't be an improvement on Billy's current opportunities. And with a child too."

Sherlock glared.

Mycroft continued, "Billy asked me if I'd travelled forward in time. It was delightful reading through what you didn't say in your mission reports. Gaps leave questions. I would have thought Khan Singh would have taught you subtlety. Strategy. Some form of craft." Mycroft's teeth gleamed in the blue-white glow of lights.

Sherlock glared.

"Not that my brother elected to tell me that he travelled back in time and met my progenitor."

"Perhaps I forgot to mention it because of the brain damage received from our sister. What exactly did she do to me again? I can't quite recall." Sherlock rapped his knuckles on the side of his head.

Mycroft sighed. "So pedantic brother." He stood up. "If you need a place for your refugees, unlike the last set you unleashed without asking at a family home…"

Sherlock flipped Mycroft the bow finger and muttered, "You mean empty prison."

"Billy and his child will have every opportunity we can provide." He arched an eyebrow. "And you and your Inamorata? Shall you be visiting us on a prolonged vacation?"

Sherlock paused. "Mycroft, are you the reason the Bakerstreet was ordered to return to Earth for our reassignments."

"Brother dear, the Federation and by extension Starfleet is not the government with which I have any measure of authority. Although, I do have my instructions from Mummy."

"I do not want Mummy to interfere, I know what form their interference takes," said Sherlock. Who added, "Sod off," for good measure.

"I hope you've cultivated better relationships with senior staff than that statement would imply. Although," Mycroft smirked, "the tailor you pointed me out to me on DS9 has had some very interesting things to say between fittings."

Sherlock fled before Mycroft shared any more.


	8. John POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quote from "Much Ado About Nothing".

John tried not to think about what would be happening in five days. Technically, he had two weeks leave. But he was scheduled to go in about halfway through to report to the Personnel Office in San Francisco to get his orders for his next assignment.

In the meantime, the cottage in Cornwall was cozy. Cuddling with Sherlock on a balcony under a blanket looking at the sea. Easy transport to a transporter hub in Tintagel.

It was a pleasant surprise to run into Commodore Lestrade when he and Sherlock went to see "Much Ado About Nothing" in Stratford.

"Imagine meeting the two of you here," said Lestrade. "Seeing the same comedy about two idiots who are desperately in love, but won't declare themselves until their friends trick them into declaring themselves."

"That is not the main plot of the play," said Sherlock mutinously.

"My mum suggested I go see this version. She'd heard good things. So, I suggested to Commander Holmes, as a good friend, that he should come with me," said John quickly.

Lestrade sighed and got a sort of carry on kind of look. "Like the two of you, I'm between assignments. Pleasant for a bit not to be in a chain of command. It can make… I don't know… things, awkward. Fraternization regulations." His eyes darted over both of them. He sighed again, and thankfully shifted topics. "Perhaps they'll let this old war horse go to pasture finally. Let some younger dogs rise up in the pack."

Sherlock sniffed. "That metaphor is muddled and makes no sense. There's still gaps in senior staff positions that require experience." Which was Sherlock all over.

John looked at Sherlock and tried not to think about how much he loved the git standing next to him.

The intermission bell rang and John did not hold Sherlock's hand through the final act of the play, when love went from silly laughter to deadly serious. As they got to his favorite scene, he leaned forward watching Beatrice and Benedick realize the seriousness of their love.

John mouthed the words along with Beatrice as he always did, "O that I were a man for his sake! or that I had any friend would be a man for my sake! But manhood is melted into courtesies, valour into compliment, and men are only turned into tongue, and trim ones too: he is now as valiant as Hercules that only tells a lie and swears it. I cannot be a man with wishing, therefore I will die a woman with grieving."

Only to find Sherlock squeeze his hand while on stage, Benedick kissed Beatrice's hand, and headed off the final scenes of the play.

Love rattled its cage, but he told himself there was no point in saying anything. They'd be off for new assignments soon.

The next day, after a glorious lie in, John took Sherlock to dinner at Sisko's Creole Kitchen in New Orleans.

It was a bit of a surprise when Benjamin came in with Jake, and half the command staff from DS9.

In answer to the question John hadn't asked, Bashir said, "Nothing. We're doing nothing. We're just here. On Earth. For no reason." John didn't have to be Sherlock to know he was lying.

"Smooth, Julian," said Dax, leaning back in their chair. "Exceptionally smooth."

"Uh," said John, lowering his voice and looking around. "Is it something to do with," he leaned forward and whispered, "Section 31?" He really hoped it did. That would take some of the pressure off wondering what was coming next.

Benjamin spit-choked on his drink, but waved John off. When he recovered, Jake said, "It's been awhile since we'd visited family on Earth and Bashir had heard so much about gramp's restaurant, he came along."

"And I had some old friends to visit," said Dax easily.

"Yes, the food. We're here for the food," said Bashir. "That is why I came along. Oh, hey, your cane, you're not using it. And you're umm… certainly cutting that fish with no dexterity problems. No more hand tremor. Were you able to find a therapy that you responded to?"

"You know, I'd rather not discuss that right now," said John putting his knife down. "Two doctors talking shop means everyone else falls asleep. But sit down."

They sat, and the conversation shifted to other things.

It was perhaps not a surprise, given so many of the DS9 staff were on Earth, when Garak showed up at the cottage in Cornwall where they were staying carrying two boxes. "Uh," said John, very intelligently, "Isn't this a long way to come for a delivery." He tried to remember if they'd ordered anything.

"Oh, I'm a full service, tailor," said Garak. "I had some free time so I put something a little extra together for you."

Sherlock came into the room wearing John's favorite of the outfits Garak had made for him – the blue silk thing that revealed and hid with every movement – and glared. "Did my brother send you?"

Garak smiled, "I can honestly say that your brother has nothing to do with my presence here." Which since Bashir claimed Garak lied like breathing could have meant anything. Garak put down the boxes. "Now as much as I love seeing both of you wearing clothing that I have made, I would like to get a final fitting from the both of you, just in case. You should both disrobe. It's entirely for the better fit of the garment."

Sherlock sighed, and looked at John, who grinned. "Well, if it's for a better fitting garment." John didn't even look at what was in the boxes until Garak left. It was the usual lounge wear, but two fitted suits. Early twentieth century Earth.

John insisted they had to try them on. Sherlock looked amazing in a black pinstripe suit that made his coloring even more striking. Made him look even taller. His shoulders wider. Beautiful. John's heart squeezed. He had to focus on fastening the buttons of his suit. When he finished, the suit did make him feel a fitting partner for Sherlock in a light blue plaid.

He was about to suggest they take off their suits and get up to something on the balcony, when he got a ping from Lucy that a bunch of the bridge crew from the Bakerstreet were meeting in this sort of interactive theater experience speakeasy in San Francisco. John looked at himself. He looked at Sherlock.

Sherlock said, "We should go. Together."

John's eyes widened. "We?"

"We're both wearing suits, and you love theater." Sherlock slipped his arm through John's and called for a transport.

Once in San Francisco, the fog swirled around them while they had find a man in a yellow fedor to give a code word. They were given a riddle, which Sherlock found ridiculously easy to solve. Which led to giving another code word to a man in an old fashioned barbershop, who rapped his knuckles on the back wall, which opened up behind him. They went down a dimly lit stairwell into a posh looking 1920s bar and ballroom. There were actors already interacting with their friends.

Not only was Lucy there, with Hunter, Smith, and Hudson, but Sisko, Dax, Bashir, and Lestrade were there.

John even spotted Garak.  

Dax sauntered up to John and put a drink in both their hands. "You need to try these China Clippers. It's a rum drink with five spice. Your life isn't complete without it."

"Sure." John took the drink dubiously, but it was good. He looked at Sherlock, who was looking impossibly tall and wonderful. Likewise eyeing his drink. With Sherlock's metabolism, he could drink them all under the table. John decided to pace his drinking. It wouldn't do to blurt out any sort of declarations while under the influence, while Sherlock was stone cold sober.

"Come on," said Lucy, "The events are starting." As she explained it, the theater experience was a night at a speakeasy. They could follow various actors. Observe various events. Solve mysteries." She looked over at Sherlock, who sniffed.

They both had an excellent time.

Admittedly, off to a slow start when John ended up in a conversation with the mother looking for her son's secret fiancée. She explained to John in detail about how her son had died in the war without introducing her to his family out of shame and how she wished he hadn't wasted time hiding his love. They found the secret fiancée, who was in a hidden chamber behind the bar being forced to print counterfeit currency by a sort of Bonny and Clyde pair. The Bonny character read them both a poem about the folly of waiting to declare love because life was short. On cue, there was a shootout with a rival gang that left them dead, but not before revealing a clue about a lost treasure. Something to do with a gold statue of two kissing figures that had belonged to two medieval lovers, who waited too long to declare their love, and ended up parted in a nunnery and with a Medici wife respectively. They found the statue, which they got to keep as a souvenir.

"Simple," sniffed Sherlock over their after play drinks back in the main bar.

"Oh, did you follow the plot line about the immigrant lovers," Lucy clutched her own souvenir, a wide gold cup. "They were exiled from China, after crossing the pirate queen Chin Singh of the Blood Hands, and needed our help finding the kissing cups of the pirate queen, who allowed nothing to get in the way of marrying her lover. Not even… John are you listening?"

John nodded happily. He was feeling a bit fuzzy after downing a China Clipper followed by a Missionary's Downfall, and couldn't quite remember what his earlier resolution had been.

Lucy sighed and led a round of toasts. Sisko gave a speech about the bonds of friendship while looking dubiously at the surroundings.

Dax said, "Relax, old man. It's not historically accurate. The point is to have fun. And," she glanced at Sherlock, "compare descriptions of the various plays we did. I got to help two lovers who didn't know how to tell each other that they loved each other and just needed a little push."

"Cyrano de Bergerac." John lifted his drink in a toast to Cyrano de Dax.

Hudson ordered a drink called a Virgin Sacrifice for Sherlock, which was served in a wide bowl with a replica of a volcano in the center. Their server set a sugar cube on fire in the center.

It got a bit blurry after that. John woke up in their cottage and made use of a toilet, a hangover cure, a mint, and a good snog with Sherlock. 

The next day was it.

John and Sherlock both had appointments on the same day. They beamed into headquarters together, but were quickly routed in different directions. John told himself no matter what he had another week with Sherlock. No need to panic just yet.

John walked down an infinite hallway wondering if there was a time dilation. That stopped as he went into the room where he was supposed to meet his assignment officer, and Captain Killander was sitting behind the desk.

He stopped. "What are you doing here? Where is the Assignment Officer?"

"Oh, Internal Affairs is often called in for these sort of things. They'll be in in a moment. Lieutenant Watson. Have a seat."

John sat in the only chair facing the desk. It was that or remain standing, and he'd be damned if he's stand at attention for Killander.

"Your records are very patchy. Conduct unbecoming an officer at the Academy." Killander tisked. "A rather unfortunate gap in hazardous materials protocols resulting in the entire crew being infected and nearly destroying the ship."

"We didn't fall into a star," said John crossing his legs and leaning back. "A definite win."

"How true," said Killander. "The ship fresh from the shipyards did not fall into a star. How excellent."

"Stop playing around and get to the point." John really did not need to hear a summation of the last five years through Killander's skewed and skewering point of view.

Killander pushed his tablet aside. "Soo-Lin Yao escaped custody shortly after she was captured."

"Your point?" John looked at Killander steadily, "Or did you want to accuse every Augment in the fleet of having something to do with that too?"

"I've been carefully reading the reports relevant to her time on the Bakerstreet. She was part of your crew when you visited the twenty-first century."

"And she spent the entire time trying to get us back to this century."

"So you say, but there is a break in both the brig and sickbay logs for the time you were in the past. How unfortunate for you that the logs documenting your nerve damage and your psychologically induced limp were copied to Starfleet central."

John crossed his arms to avoid punching the bastard. "Yeah, well, the military runs on documentation."

"While Lieutenant Commander Donovan may consider herself a side note in history, certain areas of Starfleet are well aware what her father was given in exchange for helping Khan escape the last time."

"Last time," said John, confused. "Khan is ashes. Pretty much the only time."

Killander picked up a stylus and threw it at John, who reacted without thinking and caught it.

"Nerve damage healed I see, and…" Killander looked around the room, "where is your cane exactly?"

Dread pooled in John's stomach. He riffled through possible explanations. Alien civilization with mysterious monolith. Energy anomaly. If the last few months hadn't been spent patrolling with a side trip to DS9, maybe. But even if he'd known Killander was waiting for him, the level modifications to ship's logs, perjury was… fuck it. John tossed the stylus back at Killander, who was less adept at catching it. As he fumbled for it, John said, "Must be some latent healing. Didn't want to report it without having a chance to properly study it."

Killander laid the stylus next to the tablet. "There are two possible explanations. You were rewarded for your complicity with Soon Lin Yao by being given access to Khan and his followers."

"Khan and his pile of ash followers. I had plenty of access. They were dusty."

"Or, you brought someone back with you from the twenty-first century. Most likely, a British Augment, and given their higher level of augmentation, they cured you of your recent difficulties."

That was a good deal to close to home. John spread his hands. "Like I said, I wanted to publish. Maybe present at one of those big conferences. It looks like fun."

"Lieutenant Watson, I am aware you accessed Doctor McCoy's files about curing Captain Kirk of being… very dead. That's a valuable ability worth studying. Not to mention a third possibility. That you brought someone back and they convinced you to help them free their relative."

Killander pushed the tablet across the desk. Along with the stylus. "A location and which theory is correct, and you'll retain your commission. Get me a genetic sample from your time traveler that will allow me to demonstrate that Khan and his followers weren't the bodies destroyed in those chambers, and a good deal of the black marks on your records can be made to… disappear."

John thought furiously. "The only reason you'd care about proof is if you've got your own black mark on your record. Section 31 not happy at the level of exposure they got? I don't think you have the authority to make anything disappear."

"As a representative of Internal Affairs, I have to tell you that Starfleet is very concerned about the psychosomatic limp. Then there's the," he looked down at the tablet, "social anxiety resulting in hypersexualized behavior at the academy." He told himself not to respond, "Your nearly catatonic response to your father's death," he nearly exploded at that. "Subsequent violent responses to authority figures." John told himself that hitting Killander would only feel better momentarily. "Starships are such small communities. Starfleet takes the mental health of their crew very seriously. However, you are a potentially valuable resource. I have enough authority to put you on inactive status. If your memory improves, you can go back on active status."

Killander stood up. "But your Assignment Officer can give you the details." He left and a very harried looking woman came in.

He asked about his options to protest the decision. She sent him links to three forms. "These may take a few months to process. We have to process all the records for personnel who are reaching their five year mark, as well as our normal duties handling new personnel." She shook her head. "Really, the Borg were hell on paperwork."

"Yeah, I can see where that was their primary problem," said John. "Since I'm now on permanent leave, I should get back to that."

He tried to ping Sherlock, but Sherlock didn't answer.

When he arrived back at the cottage in Cornwall, Sherlock wasn't back yet. He went into the sun room to have a think.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some suits for the Speakeasy, which I've yet to go to in SF, but I'm guessing every plot arc isn't a, "Hey, you two should tell each other than you're in love."  
> https://vintagedancer.com/1920s/1920s-mens-suits/


	9. Sherlock POV

"What are you doing here?" asked Sherlock, who had been held waiting in a subterranean conference room for thirty minutes.

"I was having tea with Vice Admiral Th'Azetron," said Mycroft, waving at the Andorian Admiral and the three aides trailing behind him, "when I mentioned that I expected my little brother, Commander Sherlock Holmes, I hope you don't mind I drop your name every now and again in conversation with Andorians, but the family is so proud of your achievements."

"Get to the point," said Sherlock wishing he could transport Mycroft very far away.

Admiral Th'Azetron smiled genially. "Your brother mentioned that you would be coming into Starfleet headquarters today to receive your new orders. It was a good thing too. There was some sort of snafu with your orders," he rolled his eyes, "a miscommunication no doubt related to so many personnel being processed this year, but I had my aides cut you some more suitable orders. Your brother mentioned that you would prefer to be assigned to the Bakerstreet with a promotion to full captain, of course. But if you'd prefer a different assignment, the Reliant has not yet been assigned a new captain."

"Mycroft was," Sherlock put on a smile, "correct."

"I generally am," said Mycroft looking at Sherlock odiously.

"Excellent. Can't think what Internal Affairs was thinking trying to… never mind. A mistake." Th'Azetron snapped his fingers and one of the aides handed him a tablet. "Now to more important matters. He displayed the image of three Andorian infants. "Thanks to your and Lieutenant Hebron's research on the Bakerstreet, I am a proud grandfather. My clan is growing in numbers for the first time in five hundred years."

Since Th'Azetron could answer which treatment variation his daughter had used and triplets were moderately interesting, Sherlock endured the remainder of the conversation. While every atom of him itched to find out what had occurred in John's interview. Where John had been assigned.

As soon as he could, he beamed back to the cottage in Cornwall.

John was sitting in the sun room staring at the waves in silence.

"What happened?" asked Sherlock because the bandage had to be ripped off.

"Killander happened. Made me a… he thinks I was cured by Khan, who he doesn't think is ash, or Billy, who… it doesn't matter. I'm not being reassigned. I'm being put on inactive duty."

"What!" Sherlock grabbed John's pad, but that was exactly what the idiots at Starfleet had opted to do. He considered a late night raid to threaten Killander to… or contacting Th'Azetron, or Mycroft, or,"

John said, "It's fine. It was a possibility. There was Dad. Black marks on my record. The statistics were never good for being reupped as a… fucking Augment. An omega," John threw the pad across the room. There was a loud crack.

"Marry me." Sherlock wasn't sure who had said the words at first, but it would seem that it was him. Then all the reasons this was an incredibly logical thing to do rushed out. "You could remain on the Bakerstreet. As a Captain, they made me captain of the Bakerstreet, I should have said that before, but I have discretion over the assignment of inactive status personnel to fulfill vital roles. Medicine is a vital role. You're a trained Starfleet doctor. You're valuable. You don't have to marry me. I could just appoint you as the ship's doctor, but you should. It's not uncommon for ship's captains to be married to the ship's doctor provided there isn't an issue with chain of command." Sherlock had been doing research. He didn't want to look away to gather it up from his memory palace.

"I…"

"Say, yes." Sherlock was aware looming over the person he was asking to marry him was non-traditional, but he found himself unable to do anything else. "We already know we're extremely sexually compatible." He dared to place his hand over where John's scar had been before Sherlock had come so very many times on it and smoothed scars away.

John shook his head no, which was unacceptable.

"It would be convenient."

John swallowed. He was going to say no.

"Do it even if it would be inconvenient."

"I don't know if I want to have kids. Or what if I do want kids, and you don't."

"Irrelevant." It really was. He cast about for other logical reasons John should marry him. He had to convince John. It was suddenly vitally important.

"I… let me think about it."

"Fine." Sherlock crossed his arms already thinking of additional methods to convince John.

"Alone." John pointed at him. "And don't follow me."

Sherlock smiled, which was not agreement. Anyway, John had never been capable of observing when Sherlock followed him. It was a constant in their relationship.

Which was not going to end like this.


	10. John POV

A marriage of convenience. Inconvenience.

It was just like Sherlock to try to help him like this, but sex with Sherlock while knowing he was in love with him was one thing. Getting married was entirely another. He couldn't put Sherlock through something like that. What if it got in the way of his career? What if Sherlock fell in love with someone else? What if John fell out of love? Was this the perfect fit his parent's had had? Minus the secrets.

Except John had this box full of secrets.

Marriage was a partnership. It was John and Sherlock binding themselves together in a serious way. Not able to just walk away.

John didn't want to walk away. He wanted to hold on with both hands. But he didn't know if it was the right thing to do.

He vid called Lucy, and told her his news. Said Sherlock had asked him to marry him and why. Her eyes got very wide. Very. She said, "John, I'm about to take my four year old child to meet my grandmother for the first time. Because it took this long for my cousins to arrange it."

"Oh, sorry, um… I can call back." John felt like an idiot.

"No, it's fine. She'll want to talk about why I didn't marry the father, which… having a kid is a stupid reason to get married. I like Freddy, but we have nothing in common. So, when are you getting married?"

"I didn't say yes. I said I have to think about it."

"You have to think about it," said Lucy. "Why? He's in love with you. You're in love with him. It'll stick it to the Normals trying to push you out of Starfleet. You'll go on having adventures on the Bakerstreet."

"Sherlock's not in love with me."

"You know what, you're right. I am not going to have this conversation with you right now. I'm tired of telling you the same thing over and over. I'm going to go have my grandmother tell me that I got what's coming to me for going into space and then watch her spoil Eva. When you figure out what you want to do, call me." Lucy cut off the monitor.

John decided to call the big guns. He called his mum. She was in some sort of space port. "What is it, sweetheart? It'll need to be quick, we're about to board."

He decided to skip news of his commission. The proposal. "Mum, how did you know Dad was the one and only for you? That you were a perfect fit?"

His mother laughed. "We were hardly a perfect fit." She sighed. "I think sometimes that we did you and Harry a disservice by not arguing in front of you. Not letting you see where the jagged edges were. The work it took to work through them because it was worth the effort. But, we wanted to present a united front, and Harry was… always so sensitive." She smiled at him softly. "Have you spoken to Harry since she was sent to Tantalus asylum?"

This was not the conversation he wanted to have. "No. I… can't yet."

There was a noise behind his mother. "That's the boarding call. We can talk when I get to Earth."

"What? Why?"

His mother winked at him. "Does a mother need a special occasion to visit her son? Now I really must go. See you in a few days."

He stared at the blank screen for several minutes, before deciding what he needed was a drink.

He went to the space port near the academy. More specifically, he went to a bar. He saw cadets. They looked young. He tried to figure out how they had gotten so young. He wasn't that old.

He was only twenty-six.

He'd only completed five years of service. Not even a full ten. He'd be eligible for a Lieutenant's quarter credit pension. He supposed he could always fall back on the arts if he wanted to keep himself in bespoke clothing.

He wasn't wanted.

Except, he knew somewhere in the bar, Sherlock was probably watching him. He was wanted. But this couldn't possibly be fair to Sherlock.

Could he handle being married? To Sherlock?            

He spotted Hunter nursing a drink at the bar. He said, "Mind if I join you?"

She waved at the empty seat next to her. "I've driven off eight cadets." She shook her head. "When did they get so young?"

"I was thinking the same thing."

"Did you get your orders?" He didn't to talk about his own just yet.

"Yeah. Promotion to Lieutenant Senior grade. Navigator on the Reliant."

There was a lead box in his stomach, but he made himself say, "Congratulations."

"I requested to be continue my assignment on the Bakerstreet." She looked down at her drink. "My assignment officer took care of it right there."

"What? Why?"

"Because," she twisted her glass in the well of liquid that had beaded beneath it on the sticky bar, "the person I love, comes with the ship." She raised her glass and toasted the back bar. "He's property of Starfleet."

"Sherlock asked me to marry him."

"Really," she grinned at him. "Finally."

"For convenience. Starfleet cashiered me out and he wants me to stay on as the ship's doctor, and seems to think captains should be… it was all a little confusing."

She stared at him. "You do realize that there has been a betting pool since the first week we shipped out as to when the two of you would finally admit that you were a couple."

"But it's not fair to him. He's not in love with me. He certainly doesn't care…" he unlocked the cage a little. "He doesn't love me in the same way I love him."

Hunter answered that statement with an arched eyebrow and a sharp, "Oh, for fuck's sake! Do you need me to slap you? Would that help?"

Stung John said, "And there's the question of kids." He didn't want to deal with the box he'd been carrying. The baggage he was still dealing with over his father and Harry. John felt the guilty weight of all those data crystals, "It's hard to explain."

"I can't begin to get the whole Augment thing, but I'm making career decisions because I'm in love with a hologram, who fuck – I'm the reason he has the programming to love me back and I'll never know if that's…" Hunter stopped herself. Chewed on her lower lip for a bit. "Children are not the only reason people get together. At least you didn't program him to be into you."

John nodded. Not sure if he was convinced.

He needed air. He slipped out the back door and just breathed. Possibly a mistake given the garbage.

"Well, well, what do we have here?" said an oily voice. A Ferengi stepped out of the shadows. "An omega all on his own. I smell profit." He raised a disruptor.

"What? Do you people just lurk back here hoping some idiot comes out," said John. He grabbed a board off the ground and hit the Ferengi with it. Which would have been fine, but it seemed the Ferengi had friends. Several of them. John was giving himself even odds of being shipped to wherever the fuck they sent omegas for sex trafficking, when a hooded figure dropped from the top of the building.

It was such a strange echo of that night so long ago, that John just stared as the figure took on three Ferengi and several seedy looking Klingons. John laughed and joined in the melee. No one died this time.

Their attackers ran off. Although, he did find the grumbled, "Hudson better appreciate this," more than a little suspicious.

But really, he couldn't care about that while standing with the hooded figure panting. Laughing. "Sherlock, that was you, wasn't it? The last time."

The figure threw back his hood. Sherlock glared at him. "Why would you even remotely think I care more about reproduction than I care about you? Or that I don't care. That I am not in love with you. That… I'd willingly run away and leave this sector behind if I could do it with you. Explore the gamma quadrant. With you. Only with you. You cured me of being in love with Irene because I was already in love with you. You idiot!"

"I am an idiot." John laughed, and even knowing he'd regret it given the way the alley smelled, he got down on one knee. "Sherlock, since you're in love with me even though I'm an idiot and even though I want to marry you even though you were stupid enough not to mention you love me while proposing. Because I," he let the words go and took the leap, "love you. Will you marry me?"

Sherlock flushed. "Yes. Let's do it now. Immediately."

"With our friends on the Bakerstreet," insisted John, who felt they needed to have some semblance of a ceremony. "I get the impression they've been trying to push us out of the nest for the last week."

"Fine. Yes." Sherlock patted where his com would have been if he weren't in disguise.

"Later." John got up and laced his fingers through Sherlock's. "Let's have sex on the bridge of the Bakerstreet while no one's on board. Well, Billy, and whatever techs are handling maintenance, but we can lock the lift."

"Oh! Yes! Brilliant idea." Sherlock kissed John's hand. "We could role play as two idiots incapable of expressing their feelings, but having done so now can't stop expressing those feelings. I love you."

"You are a genius, and I love you too."


	11. Sherlock POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quote by John Donne, Epithalamions, or Marriage Songs  
> Eclogue: at the Marriage of the Earl of Somerset  
> https://www.bartleby.com/357/60.html

Marrying John was brilliant. It was fabulous. He beamed at John throughout the entire ceremony, which was held in the cargo hold of the Bakerstreet. The party setup transformed for a wedding.

Hudson started the ceremony by saying, "I may have won the ship's pool, but Sherlock and John won each other. Now please take your seats so we can get them married before something ridiculous occurs."

At least it explained the presence of so many DS9 personnel on Earth. Sisko, as it turned out, had been invited by Hudson to officiate the ceremony. He spoke about love and time. How one was enriched by the other. Quoted a time traveling Bajoran poet he'd recently met and Shakespeare.

Through it all, Sherlock kept looking at John and thinking, "This will be my husband in a few more moments." John looked resplendent in a perfectly fitted tuxedo that Garak had made based on their last fittings. A wedding gift from Hudson.

John's mother, Elise, cried as she walked John down the aisle. Kissed his cheek as she let him go.

Sherlock was not concerned that Trelane, and a woman whose face he couldn't quite focus his eyes on, appeared in a seat next to her. Trelane handed Elise a lacy gold handkerchief. Sherlock was somewhat concerned. Very concerned. But it would be fine.

He was marrying John who loved him.

Connor still had flowers in his hair from flinging them at the audience. Eva gave Lucy the rings on a pillow, saying, "Idiot rings, Mama."

The attendees laughed.

Still, Sherlock's hand shook as John slipped a ring on Sherlock's hand, with a recitation of vows. A visible mark of belonging wrapped around his finger.

_Every hearth ablaze. The sea in his basement bobbing with a joyful breeze._

Sherlock was even too happy to mind that Mycroft didn't go away when he was told he was not needed to assist helping Billy find to a new life. Instead, he congratulated Sherlock and invited himself to the wedding with a plus one of an armored Breen. It could have been any of his parents. Or none of them.

Sherlock did not care because he was marrying John. John. John.

Sherlock left it to Donovan to glare at his brother and the Breen through the ceremony. A delegation of tasks that meant he could look into John's eyes as he slipped a ring on his finger, and vowed to do all the things he wanted to do anyway.

At the reception, Elise stood up and said, "My father read this poem by John Donne in honor of my marriage, and I found when it came time to write this speech, I turned to it as well." She raised one hand in declamation. "Now, as in Tullia’s tomb, one lamp burnt clear. Unchanged for fifteen hundred year, May these love-lamps we here enshrine, In warmth, light, lasting, equal the divine. Fire ever doth aspire, And makes all like itself, turns all to fire,               But ends in ashes; which these cannot do, For none of these is fuel, but fire too. This is joy’s bonfire, then, where love’s strong arts. Make of so noble individual parts. One fire of four inflaming eyes, and of two loving hearts." She raised a glass of champagne. "To Sherlock and John."

There were toasts. Sherlock hardly tasted the champagne. He was too busy looking at John, who was looking at him. He was John's husband. He belonged with John.

Lucy gave a speech. It was a blur.

Lestrade gave a speech. It had words in it.

Mycroft got up and dull and boring things, and it didn't matter. John was smiling at him. It didn't even matter when Garak sat down next to Mycroft, and Sherlock was not looking in that direction.

It didn't even matter when Dax raised their glass and said, "Despite all my previous hosts, this was the first time I've thrown a bachelor party without the bachelors knowing they were getting married. Thanks for the new experience."

For their honeymoon, they set off in on their next five year mission.

Hudson told him that telling every new crew member that he was married to Doctor John Watson was unnecessary, but he did it anyway. Everyone needed to know just how lucky Sherlock was.

Hunter said, "Yes, I was there, sir."

Sh'Alaack, who had been officially promoted as the head of Engineering, asked, "Is this a human custom?"

Donovan, who had requested to remain on the Bakerstreet said, "It's the freak's custom."

His new helmsman, Ensign Winter, smiled weakly, "Nice to know, sir." He'd preferred Smith, but she'd transferred to the USS Reliant as Second Officer. Some things changed.

John sat next to him on the command couch as they set off on their continuing voyages.

It was going to be amazing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so we come to the end of what I would call season four. There are three more "seasons", and fourteen more stories. Some of which are... long given we'll be getting to the meat of some of the plot. 
> 
> Going there will be a lot more time jumps.
> 
> There's a couple of reasons for this. A) John is twenty in the first story and I need him to be at a different point in his life before we get to the end of journey with this verse. B) At month five of writing these, I realized I'd hit 250k words and not only had a lot of main plot to deal with, but a number of fun, but not plot relevant stories. So I consolidated and pulled out a few. You've seen references to a lot of them in the form of one paragraph teasers about off screen adventures. Some day if I want to go back and fill them in, I'll have gaps in the timeline to put them in here.
> 
> So you can get a sense of the passage of time, going forward, I'll tell you John's age and how long he and Sherlock have each other at the beginning of each story. 
> 
> Mind you, you'll get the honeymoon phase of marriage first.


End file.
